


Temporary Reprieve

by NammiKisulora



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jon has the emotional intelligence of an amoeba, M/M, Mention of Basira/Daisy, Mention of Tim/Martin, Mutual Pining, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), The Lonely - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25488142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NammiKisulora/pseuds/NammiKisulora
Summary: For a little while, they are safe. After Jon rescues Martin from the Lonely, they have a few things they need to sort out between them, which they do in the Scottish safehouse.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 120





	Temporary Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on the gaps between 159 and 160. It's been years since I wrote in English, so please forgive any grammatical mistakes. Rated for occasional swearing.

Eventually the foggy beach becomes a foggy street, and then, without either of them really noticing, the fog dissipates and becomes a steady drizzle. They’re standing on a London side street; it’s mostly empty, but the roar of the city is audible close by. Martin flinches, his hand falling out of Jon’s. He didn’t leave the Archives much at the end, and even when he did, he tried his best to avoid crowded places; and after the deep, bone-chilling loneliness of the foggy beach, even the distant noise of people is almost too much.

Jon looks at him, head tilted to the side and a soft, gentle look in his eyes that Martin doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. Or – maybe – didn’t he look a bit like that when he tried to talk to Martin that time when Martin told him not to find him again? Jon reaches for his hand again but hesitates, and instead of taking it he just brushes Martin’s knuckles with his fingertips.

“Martin…” He trails off, uncertain, and Martin’s chest aches with something he doesn’t know what to call any more.

 _I_ _need you_ , Jon had said, on the beach. _I need you._ Three words Martin would’ve paid anything to hear before – before the Unknowing, before Peter Lukas, before the Lonely.

“Let’s – let’s just go”, he chokes out, looking at their feet to avoid meeting Jon’s eyes. But he doesn’t pull away when Jon takes his hand again, quietly leading them towards a tube station close by.

*

_I really loved you, you know._ _I really loved you. Loved._ Jon squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to force the endless loop in his head shut up. _Loved you. Loved you. Loved._ Past tense, as in not any more. _I really loved you, you know._ And yes, Jon knows. He Knows, Knows with cold certainty that he was too late. Maybe it was always too late, for them. But Martin is alive, he clings to that, Martin is alive and out of the Lonely. That he loved Jon, past tense, while Jon only recently has discovered that he loves Martin, very much present tense, is a matter that can be safely locked away for now. Martin is alive, and here, and that is enough. At least so Jon tells himself, while he gently guides them back to Martin’s flat.

On the tube he texts Basira, telling her where they’ll be. Something in him unclenches when she replies, even though it’s only a terse _OK_. Martin huddles by the window, eyes wide open, staring out into the darkness. He isn’t crying, but when Jon catches a glimpse of his own reflection he realises he is, his cheeks wet with quiet, unnoticed tears. He tries wiping his eyes without Martin noticing, and maybe he succeeds; at least Martin doesn’t react. He’s let go of Jon’s hand again. _I really loved you, you know._ Jon sniffles and buries his face in his hands for a moment. It doesn’t matter anyway: all that matters is that Martin is alive and _here_. Everything else, they can deal with later.

When they get to the flat, Martin kicks off his shoes and drops into a chair in the kitchen, still without saying a word. Jon leans against the counter and takes a breath. There are so many things he wants to say, so much they – no, _he_ – should talk about, and he hasn’t the faintest idea of where to start.

“Martin – Martin, I…” No. Something tells him that one wrong word, and Martin will bolt, regardless the fact that they’re in his apartment. “I’ll – I’ll make us some tea, alright?” And Martin’s nod feels like a reassurance that maybe, maybe some things are still as they ought to be.

*

Jon fiddles with his phone while he makes tea. There’s no milk, because Martin hasn’t been home in a while and thus had no need to get any, but it’s hot and sweet and the mug nearly burns his hands when he clutches it, a searing anchor to reality. Jon silently sips his tea on the other side of the table, eyes downcast and fiddling with a forgotten crumb on the tabletop. He looks… forlorn, the quiet confidence he had when he led them out of the Lonely gone. Martin feels like he should say something, but what? _Thanks for saving me_ ? It sounds – it just sounds plain wrong, especially since he isn’t certain he _is_ thankful. It was true what he said, that nothing had hurt there. The quiet was nearly peaceful, and in a way, it did feel right, or at least not as wrong as many other things. But Jon had come for him, and for a glorious moment Martin had seen him, really, truly _seen_ him, and _felt_ again. Taking Jon’s hand and following him hadn’t been a hard decision then.

So now he watches Jon stir his tea and move his lips before giving his head a tiny shake, like he’s trying out and dismissing different things to say.

“Jon”, he says, so quiet it’s nearly a whisper. It was hard to speak, on the beach. The fog ate the words, somehow, muffling every noise except the sea, and the feel of fog creeping into Martin’s mouth and throat still washes over him every time he opens his mouth. He takes a sip of tea and tries again. “Jon.”

Jon looks up, looking more vulnerable than Martin has ever seen him. “Martin”, he says, and something in Martin’s chest stirs, something he thought was irrevocably gone, taken by the fog. “Martin, I…” But once again, he trails off. Martin wonders what he meant to say.

 _I need you_ , he’d said on the beach. _I need you. I don’t just want to_ survive _!_ Martin sighs. Jon’s hand is lying on the table, scarred fingers slightly curled. It would be so easy to reach out, to take it, but... He’s not on the beach any more, and when he looks around, there’s no fog in his faded yellow kitchen. He still feels it, though. It clings to him, the icy tendrils snaking around him, making his arms too heavy to move. Suddenly he feels how tired he is, and by the looks of it, Jon is nearly asleep on his feet. Martin forces himself to speak.

“C’mon then”, he says. “Let’s make up the couch for you, we’re not going anywhere else tonight.”

Jon starts, dropping his spoon with a clatter that makes Martin wince. Then he shakes his head. “No, we’re not. Basira – Basira’s coming by in the morning with… I don’t know, something. We can’t stay in London and the Institute is crawling with police, but we should be fine tonight.”

They rise. Martin’s limbs feel watery, and he’s sure he’s shaking, but Jon doesn’t comment on it, instead just follows him quietly into the living room. When Martin turns on the light, he sees a thin layer of dust is coating everything within it. How long has it been since he last sat on that couch, he wonders? Jon fiddles uncomfortably next to him.

“Just – just get me a blanket or something”, he says, and Martin just nods. When he returns with a blanket from the cupboard, Jon hasn’t moved. He takes the blanket with a quiet: “Thanks. Good night, Martin, sleep well.”

And Martin leaves him there, going to brush his teeth before crawling under the covers of his bed without bothering to undress. The bedroom feels cold and empty, and the bed far too big, which is ridiculous when he thinks about it, but… He shudders and closes his eyes, willing the imaginary fog to go away. Instead it settles over him like a second blanket, and Martin shivers like he’s still there on the foggy beach. And there, alone in his bedroom, Martin starts to cry.

*

Jon is sitting on the couch when he hears the first muffled sob. The blanket is bundled up in his arms, it’d be a moment’s work to lie down and pull it over him, but… There it is again. Martin is crying. _I really loved you, you know._ Jon wants to go to him, but would he be welcome? His heart aches as _loved loved loved_ throbs in his mind like a headache. In his bedroom, Martin gasps for breath before continuing to sob, but muffled, like he’s crying into a pillow.

For several minutes, Jon just sits there, clenching the blanket so hard his knuckles turn white, unsure of what to do. Then Martin whimpers and Jon knows with complete, utter certainty that his heart will break if he doesn’t even try to comfort him.

The bedroom door creaks slightly when he pushes it open, but Martin doesn’t seem to notice. He’s lying in the bed still fully dressed, the covers bunched in his hands and pressed over his mouth to stifle the sound. Jon hesitates for a moment in the doorway.

“Martin?” No reaction. Maybe Martin didn’t even hear him, or… or maybe he hopes that if he just ignores Jon, he will go away again. Steeling himself for a quiet _Go away, Jon_ , he approaches the bed.

Martin’s hand is cold and clammy when he touches it, like he’s just been outside in – in the fog. Jon swallows and sits down, threading his fingers through Martin’s. He doesn’t ask if he’s alright, because _of course_ he isn’t, none of them are, but when Martin clings to his hand his heart does a double somersault and other words come pouring out instead.

“We’ll be alright, Martin, we got out, you got out, he’s gone and you’ll never be alone again if you don’t want to, I won’t let it have you, we’re together now, I love you, I love you, I love you – “

Martin freezes, and Jon thinks, _Fuck_.

*

Through the tears and the cold fog filling his head, Martin distantly hears Jon talking. _I love you_ , he says, _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , and Martin’s insides turn to ice. A few months ago, before Peter Lukas, before the Unknowing, those words would’ve made him the happiest man in the world. Now… he spent so long cutting himself off from all feelings that he wasn’t sure what remained and not. So he freezes and lets go of Jon’s hand, all air suddenly gone from the room.

Jon has stopped speaking and turns away, hands clenched in his lap. Martin wipes his eyes on the sheet and sniffles, trying to find the words to make things right again. Suddenly he remembers what he said, there on the beach. _I really loved you, you know._ And it was true. He did. But is that the whole truth? Jon is sitting with his back to Martin now, and the dim light shining from the hallway gives his grey-streaked hair a halo.

Slowly Martin reaches out to touch it. It’s soft and a bit greasy, and he’s so close Martin can smell him; old cigarettes and coffee and _Jon_. First he tenses when he feels Martin’s fingers in his hair, but then he leans into the touch ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry”, he breathes. “God, Martin, I didn’t mean – obviously I meant it, but – Look, I’m sorry. Just – forget I said anything.” But he leans into the hand Martin tentatively places against his cheek, covering it with his own and squeezing. And in that moment, Martin knows that the Lonely hasn’t taken anything from him when it comes to Jon, it never could have. But he settles for saying:

“It’s alright, Jon. It’s alright.”

*

Basira is pale and red-eyed where she sits at Martin’s kitchen table, a key and an address hastily written down on a scrap of Archive stationary in front of here. Jon Knows she hasn’t slept since he saw her last.

“Daisy?” he’d asked when he opened the door, but she only shook her head and looked away. She hasn’t touched the cup of tea Martin brought her.

“You need to leave”, she says instead, gesturing to the key. “This goes to one of Daisy’s safehouses, the one in Scotland. There’s a village not too far away from it, but it should be remote enough to be safe.”

“Are you coming with us?” Jon asks, even though he already knows the answer. And sure enough, Basira shakes her head, eyes fixed on the table.

“I promised I’d find her”, she says, so softly it’s nearly inaudible. “And I will. I have to.”

And Jon Knows then, Knows what she will have to do, and his stomach clenches at the thought. “God, Basira, I’m so sorry”, he whispers and she makes a tiny, whimpering sound before regaining her composure. She rises.

“Good luck”, she says and makes to leave, but Martin holds up his hand.

“No, wait. Wait a minute, what’s happened? What’s happened to Daisy?” he demands, brows furrowed in confusion. Basira doesn’t turn around.

“She – she let the Hunt take her again. To give Jon the chance to get – to get to you.” And the door slams behind her before either of them has a chance to react.

Martin breathes out shakily. “You didn’t tell me.”

Jon shakes his head. “There – there wasn’t a good time. I’m sorry.” He sighs. “The Hunters I met in America came in just as – as Not-Sasha appeared, and we’d just figured it out about El- I mean, Jonah, and – and Daisy bought me time so I could follow you.” Sometime the last minute, it feels like the bottom dropped out of his stomach. He feels empty and vaguely sick, and so incredibly tired still. They’ve already stayed longer than they should, though, so he takes a look at the address Basira left them. Instantly he Knows they have about ten or eleven hours of driving ahead of them and sighs again. “C’mon, Martin. Let’s go.”

*

In the end, it’s more than an hour before they leave. Jon takes a quick shower while Martin packs, and then Martin showers as well, while Jon probably pokes through his things. At least Martin told him he could; Basira brought a few changes of clothes with her, but he told Jon to feel free to grab whatever he wanted, be it clothes or books or whatever.

He feels less… distant today. They fell asleep at last, still holding hands with Jon’s back resting against the side of the bed. He must’ve woken up with hell of a crick in his neck, but he didn’t say anything, so Martin didn’t either. Neither of them brought up what Jon had said, and then Basira showed up looking like – looking like she’d just lost the love of her life. Which she apparently had. If Jon hadn’t looked so devastated, Martin probably would’ve been angry with him for not telling him sooner. As it is now, he can’t bring himself to be. Daisy was Jon’s friend after all, much more than she was Martin’s. And Basira… Martin is quite familiar with loss by now, but it seems he’s managed to avoid that particular one. As Jon apparently loves him.

“Huh”, he mutters, tossing t-shirts and underwear into a duffel. The fog is gone now, it seems, the last tendrils must’ve drained out of him sometime in the night. All the feelings – everything is coming back, strange yet familiar sensations making him pause every few minutes just to _feel_. How sweet the tea Jon made was; the light brushing of fingers as he passed Martin the cup; the ache in his chest when Basira tells them about Daisy. The feel of soft, worn fabric against his skin, the heat of the shower… Although he was playing along to keep his – yes, his _friends_ – safe, the Lonely got to him bit by bit during his time as Peter’s helper. After a while everything became muted, even before the fog. Colours, emotions, physical sensations… To feel it all again both frightens and delights him. With a smile and a shrug he tosses a few random DVDs into the duffel. Who knows, maybe the safehouse has a player?

*

They are four hours out of London when it happens. Jon is getting tired, and he’s started looking for somewhere to pull over so Martin can drive for a while. Meanwhile, Martin has been thumbing through the radio stations for the last ten minutes, but now he turns it off.

“I still love you, you know”, he says in a conversational tone. Jon nearly swerves off the road.

“Jesus, Martin”, he splutters, hands clenched in a death grip on the steering-wheel. First chance he gets, he pulls over. “Okay, okay. Okay. What the _hell_?”

“Okay, that was not the reaction I expected”, Martin mumbles, curling in on himself, and Jon curses himself for a fool.

 _You have the emotional intelligence of a retarded amoeba!_ Georgie had spat at him in one of their final fights. _No wait, that’s unfair to the amoeba!_ Jon closes his eyes and forces his hands to unclench. He breathes in and out a few times before opening his eyes again. Martin’s shoulders are hunched and he seems to be trying to make himself as small as possible, pressing himself into the door.

“I’m sorry”, Jon says. “I – I just didn’t expect it. Especially not after… last night.”

“Why?”

“It seemed obvious my ill-timed outburst was unwelcome.”

“We fell asleep holding hands!”

“Yes, but that was…” Jon bites his tongue to make himself shut up. Why on earth is he arguing with Martin? About _this_? “I’m sorry.” Tentatively he reaches out to touch Martin’s cheek with his fingertips. Martin tenses for a second before letting out a long, slow breath and leaning into Jon’s hand. His cheek is warm and soft; he must’ve shaved before they left. Jon wonders when he had the time and is suddenly very conscious of his own three-day stubble. They sit like that for a minute or two before Martin breaks the silence.

“Hey, you want me to drive for a bit?”

*

They reach the safehouse late at night. The sky is clear and this far from any other buildings, the full moon and stars are amazingly bright. Martin hardly notices though, he’s too exhausted from the endless drive. Jon fumbles the door open and flips the light-switch. Nothing happens.

“Fuck”, he mutters, flipping it a few more times for good measure. Grumbling, he goes to find the torch he keeps in the car, while Martin drops their bags on the floor and leans against the wall. It smells like dust in here, musty from disuse; he wonders when Daisy was here last.

Jon returns with the torch, and they set about looking for the bedroom and the toilet, everything else can wait till the morning. The bathroom is easy, it’s just past the hallway, and to Martin’s relief the water actually does work. The bedroom though… well, it’s not particularly hard to find, but even though Jon shines the torch all the way around three times, it’s still just one bed there. It looks decent enough, and it’s definitely big enough for two, but… Martin looks uncertainly at Jon. Should he offer to sleep on the couch, or – or… No. He shivers, the thought of sleeping all alone making him cold all over. Clammy, even, like – like in the fog. What if that’s what Jon wants though? They didn’t talk any more about anything important in the car, at first because they both felt too awkward, and then because they were too exhausted and just wanted to get there already.

Finally, after what might’ve been an eternity, or possibly just about ten seconds, Jon sighs.

“I’ll take the couch, then”, he says, and Martin winces internally at the undignified squeak he lets out.

“No. No. I’ll – no. Let’s… Look, I don’t mind sharing. If – if you don’t.”

Jon huffs, and it takes Martin a second to realise it’s a laugh.

“I don’t mind”, he says and touches Martin’s hand. Martin’s lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

They find sheets and blankets in the corner cupboard and haphazardly make the bed. It’s not particularly neat and it’ll probably be a tangled mess in the morning, but it doesn’t matter. After pulling off their jackets and jeans, they fall into bed without another word.

For the first time in months, Martin falls asleep instantly.

He wakes up once during the night. It’s pitch dark and something heavy is lying on top on him. For a second, he thinks of the fog, but the fog… solid as it could feel sometimes, it was never warm and snoring every so slightly. He’s heavier than he looks, Martin thinks muzzily before dropping off again.

The next time he wakes, Jon has clambered off of him and is lying on his side, watching Martin with a strange expression.

“Hey”, Martin croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey.”

And Jon smiles at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hi”, he whispers. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhm. You cuddle in your sleep, did you know that?” Then his brain catches up, but it’s too late. Jon looks absolutely mortified, burying his face in the pillow. He mumbles something that might’ve been a muffled _No_ , but could just as well be _Shit_. “I – I didn’t mind”, Martin tries, and to his surprise, Jon resurfaces.

“Are you sure? I mean, I would’ve asked if – if –“

“If you’d been awake, yeah. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Martin doesn’t mention how good it felt, how it made him feel truly grounded for the first time in months. It seems better not to push it. They have time, after all. They can take it slow, whatever _it_ will turn out to be.

*

“What’d you say about walking to the village?”

Jon finishes putting the cushions back onto the sofa and stretches. His joints pop for a disconcertingly long time and his back hurts from cleaning for hours. After they got the electricity sorted, they've spent most of the morning getting the house in inhabitable shape.

“Sure. It would be nice to stretch my legs for a while.”

The Scottish highlands are peaceful and quiet, but in a very different way from the Lonely. The air is clean and chilly, and it feels wonderful just to set off down the road with Martin by his side – far away from the Institute, from Jonah-Elias, from everything.

They’ve barely walked for ten minutes when Martin makes an excited noise.

“Look, Jon! Cows!” he blurts, and Jon turns to look. The field next to the road is full of shaggy highland cattle, their horns looking huge this close by. They moo placidly as Martin waves at them. Jon laughs.

“Yeah, definitely cows. I didn’t know you liked cows.”

“You _don’t_?”

“Well… I guess I’ve never really thought about it?”

And Martin proceeds to tell him everything he knows about cows, and Jon smiles and bites his tongue to keep back the unwelcome fragments of knowledge that suddenly appear in his head. Instead he takes in the beautiful countryside around them, allowing himself to actually feel happy for a moment. Of course this is only a temporary reprieve, but be is determined to enjoy it as long as it lasts.

When Martin excitedly points out a particularly fluffy specimen to their right, Jon catches his other hand without thinking.

“Oh”, Martin says, but smiles before Jon has a chance to backtrack and apologise. Martin absentmindedly caresses the scar tissue above his thumb and they keep walking, hand in hand, while Jon tries to remember how to breathe.

 _You are ridiculous_ , he tells himself. _You’re behaving like a smitten teenager. Stop it!_ But he can’t. Instead, he feels a stupid grin spreading over his face, and when Martin looks at him and scoffs fondly, he just laughs and squeezes his hand harder.

*

Of all the things Martin imagined could make Jon look like that, being rambled at about cows was not one of them. Not that he’s complaining, when Jon’s hand is tightly clasped in his, warm and solid and lovely. When they get close enough to the village that the church steeple towers over them, improbably large for such a tiny place, they let go. They’re supposed to be inconspicuous, after all.

Walking down the main street takes about five minutes, and then there isn’t much else to see. They pick up some milk and groceries, and some proper tea – Jon laughs at him when Martin insists they buy the real stuff, not any more horrid teabags, but concedes happily enough.

When they’re out of the village, Martin reaches for Jon’s hand again. It nearly makes him feel dizzy, that’s he gets to do that now. For years – years! – Jon was a fantasy, this softer side only glimpsed and imagined; the real Jon being someone who spoke Martin’s name in a voice dripping with disdain.

The memory feels like a slap, and he drops Jon’s hand like it’s burned him. Clammy fog begins to curl around him; is it real or only in his head? He realises he’s stopped walking when gently touches his shoulder.

“Martin? Martin, what’s wrong?”

Martin flinches, and Jon looks hurt and confused.

“I’ve probably listened to every tape you’ve ever recorded at the Institute, did you know that?” He takes a deep breath as Jon shakes his head mutely. “You – you remember what you used to say about me, back when you were – when you were new as head archivist?”

It’s Jon’s turn to flinch. Evidently, he does remember. He raises his hands toward Martin but lets them fall again.

“I’m so sorry, Martin. I – I was such a prick, I know. I know better now.”

Martin sighs. There’s really no point in dragging alls this up now, is there?

“Yeah. I guess.” He shrugs, hoping Jon will drop the matter. No such luck, though They start walking again, and Jon is quiet for the first few minutes. Martin can nearly feel how the cogs are turning in his head though, and eventually he breaks the silence.

*

“I’m not any good at this.” Jon looks up, hoping to see some kind of reaction on Martin’s face, but is disappointed. He’s very much out of his depth here, he knows. Georgie wasn’t wrong about the amoeba, especially since he never figured out what he’d actually done wrong _that_ time. This is Martin though, and for Martin, he has to _try_. “Look, I’m sorry. I was awful, to all of you, so many times. Especially to you. I – I know that. I was _wrong_.” Martin turns to look at him, at least that’s an improvement. Jon’s stomach is trying to twist itself into a knot though, and Martin – well, Martin still isn’t looking happy. Jon sighs. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“No. Me neither.”

The rest of the walk is spent in excruciating silence. Suddenly it feels like a distant dream, that they walked here less than an hour ago, holding hands and admiring cows. Martin all but radiates chill and distance, and when Jon looks at him out of the corner of his eye, he can almost see tendrils of grey, thick fog wrapping themselves around him. There is no need of Beholding powers to know that he’s still thinking about what an insufferable arsehole Jon used to be. Maybe still is, for all he knows, and that thought hurts.

They get back to the safehouse, and without a word, Martin sets about making them dinner. Jon hovers around the door for a few minutes before backing away. The smell of cooking spreads through the house, and Jon sits miserably on the couch, wondering what to do. If he was lost back in London, he’s even more so now. He rests his head in his hands and tries not to think for a while, but fails miserably, disjointed thoughts and memories spinning in his head so fast he nearly feels sick.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Jon jumps. How long has he been sitting here? Then he looks up and forgets how to breathe. Martin is flushed from the cooking and his hair is standing up in all directions, like he’s been pushing his hand through it repeatedly, and he’s wearing an honest to god _apron_.

“Will you please let me kiss you right now?” he blurts and immediately wants to sink through the floor, even if that would mean ending up trapped in the Buried. Martin gives him a startled laugh and twists the apron in his hands, looking nervous.

“Yeah. Yeah, you could”, he says, so softly Jon nearly misses it. But he hears it, and a second later he’s crossed the floor and wrapped Martin tightly in his arms. His lips are just as soft as the rest of him, Jon discovers, and just as wonderful. He suddenly feels so light he’s afraid he’d float away if he doesn’t hold on to Martin, so he does.

The kiss is gentle and chaste, but it feels more intimate than anything Jon has experienced for years. When he pulls back, Martin is looking at him with an odd expression, like he can’t decide if he’s going to smile or start crying. Jon caresses his cheek, his other arm still wrapped around his waist.

“Martin?”

“Jon.” Finally, the smile wins and Jon thinks his heart might burst with joy.

The dinner is simple but good, pasta with cheese and broccoli, with a simple tomato salad on the side. They don’t kiss again, but their hands brush every time either of them reach for anything on the table, and the contact sends tiny shocks all over Jon.

Jon washes up and Martin dries the dishes, probably more to be close to Jon than out of any practical need; they do have a perfectly adequate dish rack after all. Afterwards they spend a bit of time swearing over the uncooperative DVD-player, until Martin finally manages to make it work. Apparently he had the good sense to pack a few DVDs, so they put on the first episode of _Hornblower_ , which is apparently one of Martin’s favourites. Exactly why, Jon isn’t sure, because the greatness of 18  th  century sea adventures are entirely lost on him when Martin kisses him again, and this time they don’t stop for a good long while.

“It’s been a really long time since I did that”, Martin mumbles when they finally pull apart.

“Yeah?”

Martin laughs, a tiny, sad sound, and Jon’s heart takes a strange tumble.

“It was Tim, actually. Before – just before things got really bad.” Martin’s smile is sad and fond in equal measure, and Jon’s throat closes up. “We’d worked late one night and ended up back at his flat.” He sniffles, and Jon pulls him tight against him.

“I miss him too”, he whispers. Then: “Did you know he asked me out once, too? Just when he started working research for the Institute.” Martin looks surprised, so Jon hurries to continue. “I said no, of course. I – it’d just been weird. I would’ve looked like a rumpled shrimp next to him.” Martin laughs at that. A real, warm laugh, and Jon suddenly feels better. He does feel the need to make on thing clear, though. “I don’t think he really meant it.”

“I think he did. Or maybe he was just looking for a smooth way of settling into his new job.” Martin quirks his eyebrow as Jon snorts in disbelief.

“By asking me on a date? Really?”

Martin giggles.

“Yeah. He had no way of knowing you were…” He waves vaguely, looking for the right word. “… well, _you_.”

*

Jon pouts then, until Martin kisses him again, _Hornblower_ quite forgotten. They stay there on the couch all evening, and Martin feels content, the earlier disquiet forgotten. This is Jon now, and they’re together and for the moment, safe. That’s all that matters, really.

When they finally go to bed, they fall asleep close together this time, and Martin isn’t surprised when he wakes in the night to find Jon wrapped all around him. This time, when he tells Jon about it in the morning, he only smiles and kisses Martin again, and there is no fog anywhere to be seen.

*

It’s peaceful, in that safehouse in the Scottish highlands. They take walks together, pointing out and arguing about good cows, and cook and read aloud to each other. Every few days, Martin heads into the village to pick up some shopping and check in with Basira, while Jon reads a statement or two.

For a few weeks, everything is very nearly perfect.

Then the world ends.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Feel free to talk to me on tumblr @ [NammiKisulora](https://nammikisulora.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
